Saturday, August 30, 2003
Doctor's Blog
Stardate 26.08.2003
*****
I stop by Inverness to buy some Celtic and Gaelic music for my mother, and contemplate paying ninety pounds for an authentic replica of a double-handed greatsword, just for the novelty of trying to bring it back to Singapore on the aeroplane.
No, it's really a present. Of course I'm not intending to hack through the paper thin cockpit door with this extremely large eating implement. Whatever gave you that idea, offendi. May your camels go in peace.
The ten-hour train-ride back to England is uneventful. Well, almost. As we change at Edinburgh, a girl gets onto the next carriage. She's mid-height and bare-waisted. She's got fair skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a pretty good body, but its her eyes that are really striking. Dark, burning eyes, with well-shaped eyebrows set almost in a horizontal line. She looks angry and thoughtful, and for some reason, I think she's heart-stoppingly beautiful. Now when was the last time I thought something like that?
As we pass Berwick Upon Tweed, on the border between Scotland and England, storm clouds appear, as if by magic, in the clear, blue, sunlit skies. The air temperature drops perceptibly. There is a linear interface in the sky between Scotland and England, reflected in the sea, which turns abruptly from cyan to dirty grey, in a line. As we penetrate further into England, the sunlight fades and a mist arises from the ground. A faint, perpetual drizzle washes the sides of the train in sheets.
The memories of a brilliantly warm, dazzlingly sunny Scotland seem rather surreal, barely an hour later. And I can't help but think: several miles away, it is still summer, and I was there! sitting on a rock beach under clear skies and by calm water. Magic.
Stardate 26.08.2003
*****
I stop by Inverness to buy some Celtic and Gaelic music for my mother, and contemplate paying ninety pounds for an authentic replica of a double-handed greatsword, just for the novelty of trying to bring it back to Singapore on the aeroplane.
No, it's really a present. Of course I'm not intending to hack through the paper thin cockpit door with this extremely large eating implement. Whatever gave you that idea, offendi. May your camels go in peace.
The ten-hour train-ride back to England is uneventful. Well, almost. As we change at Edinburgh, a girl gets onto the next carriage. She's mid-height and bare-waisted. She's got fair skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a pretty good body, but its her eyes that are really striking. Dark, burning eyes, with well-shaped eyebrows set almost in a horizontal line. She looks angry and thoughtful, and for some reason, I think she's heart-stoppingly beautiful. Now when was the last time I thought something like that?
As we pass Berwick Upon Tweed, on the border between Scotland and England, storm clouds appear, as if by magic, in the clear, blue, sunlit skies. The air temperature drops perceptibly. There is a linear interface in the sky between Scotland and England, reflected in the sea, which turns abruptly from cyan to dirty grey, in a line. As we penetrate further into England, the sunlight fades and a mist arises from the ground. A faint, perpetual drizzle washes the sides of the train in sheets.
The memories of a brilliantly warm, dazzlingly sunny Scotland seem rather surreal, barely an hour later. And I can't help but think: several miles away, it is still summer, and I was there! sitting on a rock beach under clear skies and by calm water. Magic.
